


Shattered

by Nanoraptor



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Anger, Angry Bucky Barnes, Angst, Angst and Feels, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), We throw things when we're angry, emotions are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 20:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18764107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoraptor/pseuds/Nanoraptor
Summary: "Bucky stomped into the small kitchen, bracing himself on the counter for just a moment, trying to calm down. He couldn’t. Try as he might, his rage blinded him, fuelled by a single event."Or, Bucky is angry and feels betrayed by Steve, and doesn't know how to express himself. And who doesn't throw stuff around when they're angry?





	Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> I have been feeling increasingly disappointed about the ending of Endgame. I was also really angry the other day, and this was the result.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“ _Fuck!_ ”

 

There had only been a few moments of silence after Bucky closed his apartment door behind him, like the eerie calm before the storm, before he’d whirled around and thrown his keys as hard as he could back towards the door. They’d left a significant mark on the aged wood before crashing to the floor.

 

He cursed again, looking for something, anything, to take his anger out on. He couldn’t contain it anymore. He’d been doing ok for the last little while, but over the last week he had become more and more irritable. The small side table beside the door was quickly cleared, the key bowl flying across the entrance and smashing against the wall, flyers scattered, table overturned.

 

Bucky stomped into the small kitchen, bracing himself on the counter for just a moment, trying to calm down. He couldn’t. Try as he might, his rage blinded him, fuelled by a single event.

 

A few dishes sat, unwashed, on the counter, while others, clean, sat in the drying rack. An empty coffee mug and several bottles stood nearby. At the end of the counter - a catch-all for things that didn’t have a home. Sunglasses, a phone charger, loose change, pens that mostly no longer worked. Coupons that one of them used to save, yet the other always forgot to bring along.

 

One swift swing of his arm sent it all flying off the counter, becoming an even bigger mess on the floor. He turned and blindly grabbed one of the bottles, hurling it forcefully across the apartment with an anguished cry.

 

“WHY?”

 

The question remained unanswered as the bottle smashed against the living room wall, even though it made his throat feel raw. Raw and empty. That was how he felt.

 

He felt betrayed. Cheated. Alone.

 

Bucky stared at the glass shards on the floor as tears burned behind his eyes and threatened to fall. His throat felt tight and scratchy. He could hardly breathe. He growled, a desperate sound, coming from a place of hurt and despair. He reached over and grabbed another bottle, sending it flying to join its brother. Another satisfying smash, another gratifying explosion of glass. But it did nothing to quell the emotions within his chest.

 

The third bottle felt different, and Bucky paused, looking down to see a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand now. He tilted it, watching the amber liquid swirl around within, before popping the lid of and taking a long pull from it, emptying the bottle in one go. He'd hoped it would dull the pain, soothe it somehow, but instead it burned, intensifying his emotions as it went down. Lighting up his anger, his shame and his regret. He hated it, hated himself, hated everything about this world.

 

Bucky heaved the now-empty whiskey bottle across the room with more force than he’d used yet. His hair fell wildly around his face, eyes wide, and chest heaving. The third bottle made contact slightly aside the others, knocking a handmade shelf from the wall with a crash. A crash that added more glass to the floor, along with some photo frames and a couple of books.

 

_Fuck those books,_ Bucky thought bitterly, the rage almost more than he could bear.

 

“I never read them anyway!” he wailed, yelling at no one. His voice cracked and he turned back to the counter, seizing the mug and immediately throwing it to the floor at his feet. One bottle remained, and it, too, was a partial bottle of whiskey. He grabbed it and paused, turning the bottle around in his hand to look at the label. It must have been here for a while, as Bucky didn’t recognize the brand, or remember buying it.

 

“I never read them anyway,” he repeated, his voice now a defeated whisper. He opened the bottle and took a long drink from it, rather than hurling it across the room.

 

“I never read any of them. _You_ were always the reader.”

 

Tears blurred his vision now as he sank to the floor, back against the cabinets, bottle still in hand. The shattered glass glinted at him, taunting him, from across the apartment. The quiet, cold, lonely apartment.

 

“You _left_.”

 

The statement, barely a whisper, was made to no one, and to everyone, all the same. Bucky’s whole world, the one who had always been there for him, who had saved him from the brink of death and destruction more than once, was gone. Left. Vanished.

 

Sure, they’d discussed it beforehand, and Bucky went along with it, too afraid, for some reason, to share his true thoughts and feelings. They had all sounded so selfish in his head, so he hadn’t said it out loud. _Steve deserved this_ , he’d told himself.

 

And here, over a year later, the pain and hurt was still as fresh as it had been that first night he’d gone home alone.

 

The tears that had threatened to fall all day due to the anger, frustration and hurt that he couldn’t subdue, finally did so. Bucky drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped one arm around them, trying to find some sort of comfort or protection. From what, he wasn't sure. Himself? The world?

 

Bucky sighed and once again raised the bottle to his lips. The alcohol burned again, but in a way that was different from the way his emotions burned. It was angry and reckless, a selfish burn that stabbed his soul, rather than caressing it. It provided little comfort for the pain in his chest and the pit of his stomach that would never go away. He scrubbed at his face, wiping the tears away with the back of his hand, angry at himself for being weak, angry at the world, angry at Steve.

 

“How could you leave me alone,” he whispered again, brows furrowed. He knew he wasn’t _completely_ alone, he did have Sam still, and Bruce, and most of the others, but it wasn’t the same. It was nowhere close to the same. No one knew what he’d been through except Steve. Steve had always been Bucky’s rock, and Bucky his. Or so he thought.

 

The whole thing had made sense in the moment, but as time went on, it just felt more and more like they’d made the wrong decision. Bucky couldn’t pretend to understand how the quantum realm worked, nor did he want to know. Any time someone would bring it up Bucky would calmly stand up and leave. Just leave. He didn’t hide it or try to be polite and endure it any more. He didn’t want to talk about it; there was nothing he could do. He tried to do what everyone else had done. Move on. And he’d done okay, for the most part. There were good and bad days, but some days, weeks, months even, were worse than others.

 

For the most part, he was doing okay.

 

But on other days, well. On other days, one might lose their tight grip on their emotions and just throw a bunch of shit around their apartment in a tormented rage.

 

Bucky finished the whiskey off and focused on the warm, fuzzy feeling that crept around his consciousness. It definitely took the edge off, but it didn’t make it go away. And of course, thinking about it all now made it flare up again.

 

“I hate you,” he stated quietly, the words killing him more inside than he expected. He glared at the bottle in his hand, frowning, trying to blink the the burning tears away.

 

“ _I hate you!_ ” he screamed, throwing the last bottle towards the others. It smashed on the floor, adding more regret and shame to the emotional, tumultuous fire in his soul. A fire that would probably burn forever.

 

He pulled his knees tighter and let his head drop down to his forearms, finally letting the tears flow. His shoulders shook as the walls finally broke down. He just felt so tired now. Completely drained, spent, exhausted. He didn’t know if it would ever get easier. He hoped it would. He didn’t know how he would go on if it didn’t. All he could do was keep going. One week, one day, one _step_ at a time if he had to. Just try get through the day, no matter how rough, go to bed, then wake up and try again.

 

Tomorrow was a new day.


End file.
